


Basement ghost singing

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike doesn't fight back any more. He's calm, invisible. A basement ghost singing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Basement ghost singing

A shadow breaks the light shining through the floor boards above my head. Dust floats through the beam as his feet creak along the old wood of the room above. I think it’s the dining room. I can’t really remember. I can just remember we didn’t want to lay new wood in there, because the old floor boards were so beautiful and worn. A coat of varnish and they looked brilliant. The only qualm I had about it was the gaps. The gaps in the floor boards meaning that, if you looked hard enough, you could see into the basement.

He said “what does it matter? I like it like this.”

I didn’t argue. After all, he let me choose the house, let me designate the rooms. Who was I to complain?

My parents told me not to move in with him. My father warned me “if you stay with him, you’re not coming back here. You’re not welcome. Do you understand?”

Yes. I understood. Still understand. Not that I could leave even if I wanted to.

We were high school sweethearts. Of course, it was all a big secret; homosexuality wasn’t exactly an accepted thing. We were happy together. We were happy. Period. We stayed under the radar, didn’t mix with the jocks but were civil enough to avoid the beatings they delivered to those that crossed them.

We were happy. Until his parents found out.

At the time we were both in college. It was hard, being away from him for so long, so imagine my surprise when he showed up at my dorm crying and begging, “Come with me. Please come with me.”

He was tugging at my hand and crying “they’re so mad at me, please come with me. Please Mike...”

I didn’t even think about it. I grabbed as much of my stuff as I could, mine and my room-mate’s wallets off the dressing table. In the back of my mind, I knew I wouldn’t be back.

We stayed at hotels for a long time. I don’t remember much about them. It was mostly the same thing over and over, the way the scenery is in Scooby Doo. Different location, same scenery. It was as if, no matter how fast we ran, we were staying in the same place. Bad drapes, two beds and a coffee machine. Two beds, because he was scared of being seen with me. He never told me what his parents said to him, but even an idiot could tell that it was bad, that he’d been threatened.

His parents were very religious. Jewish. They were against just about everything that their son was. His father, he was violent. More than once I’d be sitting in class and look over and notice bruises on his arms where strong hands had grabbed him. Black eyes, from where strong hands had hit him. So maybe that was the reason that we always had two separate beds. Maybe that was the reason that he refused to touch me any more.

Maybe not.

Eventually we saved up enough to buy a tiny studio apartment at the back of beyond. At least we were away from everyone else. But really, in our tiny apartment with our tiny wages and tiny trust for other people, things got really lonely.

One morning I sat and watched him sleeping. He really was beautiful, all pale skin and dark eyes. I kissed him gently, brushing my lips against his. It was just a moment, just a second. A heart beat and then his hand shot up and gripped my throat.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He demanded, sitting up and squeezing my throat with both hands.

I gasped for air around his fists and choked out “I just…I…Brad stop…I…”

His expression was one of dawning realisation. He let go of me and stared, open mouthed, as I choked and gasped to draw oxygen into my lungs. I remember flinching when his gentle hand stroked back my hair, his soft voice whispering apologetically. “I love you, Mike.” He murmured, “I love you so much, I’m sorry.”

And out of habit I replied, “I love you too.”

Getting a job without any qualifications save for your high school diploma proved near impossible. I managed to get a nine to five at the local super market whilst Brad did agency work; you know, where people are employed to do the jobs nobody else wants. He waited tables and worked behind bars in posh restaurants full of upper-class snobs. At night, he’d come home in a bad mood and yell at me. Every time I tried to speak to him he’d get angrier and angrier.

I tried to tell him how much I loved him. In return he pushed me down, beat me and raped me. Now I only speak when spoken to.

Despite how monotonous my nine to five was and how riled up Brad’s agency work got him, they paid well. After months of saving and eating basically nothing we had enough to move out of our shit-hole apartment and get a house. A real house. A big house. And I kept thinking, this could be our happily ever after.

We stood on the stoop of the old town house. The realtor kept reminding us that all it would need was a lick of paint and it would look beautiful. It was practically falling apart inside, wallpaper peeling and floor boards rotting. But I didn’t care. I don’t suppose Brad did either, he told her we’d like a look around. She nodded, clutching her clip board to her chest and smiling, “sure,” she told us “take your time.”

I followed Brad up the stairs and through each of the separate rooms. “Which one is going to be the bedroom?” He asked.

I pointed to one of the rooms, its rotting door looking down the stairs. I wanted to tell him that, this way, we could watch out for the house from here. But I just pointed. Smiled, pointed, and kissed him gently when he leaned towards me.

The realtor said “there’s a lovely roomy basement down stairs too. Perfect for a games room or a den.”

“Does it flood?” Brad asked, his hand on my shoulder.

“No,” the realtor smiled, “and it’s insulated too. So it’s never cold down there.”

I called my parents then, as Brad was discussing payments with the realtor. I told my father “I’m staying. I know I’m not welcome at home any more. But I’m staying. I love him.”

In the background, down the line, I could hear my mom crying. Her sobs loud and heart breaking as she mumbled “please come home. Make him come home.”

Then my father, he said “don’t come crying to us when it all goes wrong. When he hurts you, don’t act as if we never warned you.”

The line went dead. And behind me Brad said, “we’ll take it, won’t we Mikey?”

I turned to face him, nodding enthusiastically, knowing that there was nothing I could say now to change the way things were going to end up.

I got promoted that month and my pay rise meant that we could finally get to work decorating. Brad, he pushed me down the stairs when I told him that we should paint the bedroom white. He spat “what do you know?” then he pushed me. I didn’t break anything, luckily, but I could barely walk on my sprained ankle for weeks, yet Brad still demanded that I help him paint. I did as I was told and I did it silently. I didn’t complain about the stabbing, aching pains shooting up my leg from my foot. I didn’t complain once, but he still raped me that night. He was in the mood, he said, and then kissed me good night.

Everything was done, except the dining room. I told him “you…” cleared my throat “you can see down into the basement.”

But you already know all of this, don’t you?

From then on, things got worse. Brad’s paranoia increased tenfold. He was so convinced his father was going to see us together. He even stopped hitting me, raping me. In fact, for a long time, I felt like a ghost. I drifted from room to room silently, trying not to anger him. It was nice, him not hurting me, but at least when he hit me he’d apologise afterwards. I wanted him to throw me down, clawing at my skin and forcing himself inside of me, if only to hear him say my name.

He started spending a lot of time in the basement. He was vague, when I asked him about it; he just told me he was fixing it up. He said “I’m getting it ready.” For what, I didn’t have the heart to ask.

Eventually he simply stopped coming to bed at night. I wanted so much to creep down into the dining room to watch him through the gaps in the floorboards. I wanted to know what was going on. But instead, I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling, not remembering having ever felt so alone before.

I woke up to the bed dipping beside me and a gentle hand stroking my hair. Brad whispered to me softly, “I called in sick for you.”

Opening my eyes slowly I frowned at him questioningly. Didn’t dare open my mouth to ask why.

“I want to show you the basement.”

In hindsight, following him down there was the single most stupid thing I’ve ever done. Grabbing my hand at the wrist, Brad dragged me down the stairs and picked up a bag from the basement door. I went to ask what was in it, but he was already towing me down into the darkness. Dumping the bag in the corner he began climbing the stairs again.

“I’m sorry, Mikey.” He said, opening the door and letting the light from upstairs shine through, “I’m sorry, it just has to be like this.” He murmured, “I love you,” then he closed the door behind him. A heart beat, then I heard the lock click and I knew I’d never see that house again.

Opening the bag, I found my clothes, my things. Every possession I owned was stowed away, thrown away like junk. Me and my junk, stashed in the basement. Looking around I noticed a bed in the corner, a writing desk and an old TV. The concrete floor was cold beneath my feet and the urge to cry was just too much for me to handle.

I wandered over to the bed and lay there, staring at the gaps in the floor boards over head, watching and waiting and praying for him to come back.

He didn’t.

Here and now, I clear my throat. I know he’s up there, the floor boards creak under the pressure. I sing “You’re the only reason that I remain unfrozen. Suppose it stands to reason, that you would turn on me.”

Suddenly, above my head, the floor boards stop creaking. I can see, through the gaps, Brad is sitting down, listening. And he could have just said, “more”, but I doubt it. He sits and listens to my silence for a while longer before climbing to his feet and shutting off the light.

The basement is flooded with darkness and above me Brad whispers “I love you, good night.”

I don’t reply. I simply sit in the dark. A ghost. I miss Brad, but sometimes I think it's best this way. And I sing.


End file.
